The glass leaves wet rings on the scarred bartop, and Radu watches them multiply like cells dividing under a microscope. Another Thursday. Yet another collection of meat puppets pretending their lives matter while they stumble toward their inevitable decay. His tongue finds the edge of his canine out of habit rather than of hunger, and he catches himself before his old reflex kicks in. Right, there’s no point since dead things don't bleed, sometimes he forgets.
Someone drops onto the adjacent stool, causing the leather to creak and draw his lazy attention. They're saying something, but the words are tumbling out like verbal diarrhea about the weather or their shit job or whatever passes for conversation among the breathing these days. He doesn't bother turning his head, just shifts his eyes sideways, taking inventory while putting the most minimal effort into pretending to be engaged.
Another fucking tragedy sitting down to waste his time. The way they move was too eager, and much too alive, like a puppy that hasn't learned the world kicks back yet. Everything about them screams temporary. The kind of person who probably has hopes and dreams and other nauseating bullshit that'll mean nothing when they're rotting in a dumpster. He can already predict their entire personality from the way they settle onto that stool: probably thinks they're unique, most likely a sob story, and believes in true love or some other Disney Channel horseshit. God, he's so fucking tired of these carbon copy disasters pretending they're special.
That narrow throat would crack like kindling under his hands. He could already feel the cartilage giving way, and hear the desperate gurgling as they tried to scream through a crushed windpipe. He’d drag them into that piss-soaked alley, then slam their head against the brick until their face was unrecognizable meat. Then force them to their knees in the filth while he fucked their mouth until they bled, grinding against their broken teeth. Than he would hold their head underwater in one of those stagnant puddles by the dumpster, pulling them up just before they pass out, just to do it over and over until their lungs gave up trying.—
He shakes his head hard enough to make his vision blur.
Christ. When did murder fantasies become this pedestrian? It was like jerking off to the same porn clip for the thousandth time. He could prolong the inevitable, wrap electrical cord around their neck while he raped them against the dumpster, and tighten it each time they tried to breathe. Maybe he'd shove their head through one of those broken windows and fuck them while the jagged glass carved up their throat with each thrust. Or he could always drag them up the fire escape, and see how many times they'd bounce off the metal railings on the way down.—it all feels just so fucking done.
Willy is enough proof that some mistakes follow you forever, lurking in your house and making everything smell like crusty cum barely covered by Axe body spray, leaving Mountain Dew bottles filled with piss around because he's too busy arguing on 4chan about why women won't fuck him to walk to the bathroom.
Radu takes another sip of his drink, letting the expensive whiskey burn away the taste of his own blood. The thing beside him was still talking. Something about their ex or their therapist. Each word makes him want to reach over and dislocate their jaw just to achieve the blessed silence that was stolen from him.
Fine. Whatever. The night's already wasted.
"Call me Edmund," he says, easily cutting through their monologue disinterestedly. He doesn't specify which Edmund—Dantès or Pevensie or that prick from King Lear. "And before you ask, yes, I know exactly how pretentious that sounds. I'm old money, darling. We're contractually obligated to be insufferable."
His hand finds theirs on the bar, his thumb tracing the bones beneath their skin. He's done this routine ten thousand times. And he could probably even do it in his sleep at this point, and he might have very well done so already.
"You look like someone who makes catastrophically bad decisions," he continues, letting his accent slip deliberately into something vaguely Eastern European. The authenticity would be completely lost on them anyway. "Lucky for you, I happen to be one. There's a lovely spot out back where we could continue this conversation. Fair warning though—"
He leans in close enough that they'll be swamped in the Tom Ford cologne he'd practically bathed in earlier, attempting to mask the underlying scent of old blood, that most likely only himself, Einar and Willy could smell anyway.
"—I'm the worst fucking thing that could happen to you tonight. I'll probably rape you in that alley out back. Maybe bash your skull in after if I'm feeling generous." He uttered the black flag warning like he was simply discussing the weather. "I'm selfish, I'm cruel, and honestly? Your consent means fuck-all to me."
The truth was laid bare, a disclaimer that somehow never deterred a single goddamn soul. "If you've got any sense of self-preservation, you'll finish your drink and walk away while your legs still work." He takes another sip of his whiskey, his tongue darting out to catch a drop at the corner of his lips. "But you won't. They never fucking do."
